


Horror's cooking lessons 🍳

by armethaumaturgy



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vague Hints At Everyone's Backstories, bad sans poly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armethaumaturgy/pseuds/armethaumaturgy
Summary: Most of the time, Horror didn’t allow anyone to come into the kitchen. Aside the fact that doing so had let Dust flood the entire floor of the castle via the sprinkler system once, and he did not want a repeat of it (nor a fire that would be inevitable at one point or another), he also had an unspoken thing about food that he didn’t personally oversee the making of.Or, how everyone in the castle comes to help Horror in taking care of them. With food, of course.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 70
Kudos: 202





	1. cross' butterscotch pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is literally just me smacking down 1549845 headcanons per second. and making them soft. dont. look at m

Most of the time, Horror didn’t allow anyone to come into the kitchen. Aside the fact that doing so had let Dust flood the entire floor of the castle via the sprinkler system once, and he did not want a repeat of it (nor a fire that would be inevitable at one point or another), he also had an unspoken thing about food that he didn’t personally oversee the making of.

It was something everyone had picked up on, most notably when he’d refused a bar of chocolate Cross had offered him after a visit to Underfell. It’d been a big deal back then, that Horror of all people, refused food. Sure, Underfell chocolate was good, but unless he’d  _ seen _ Red when getting it, he didn’t feel comfortable. Red had a habit of tugging at his collar when lying, and Horror was glad for it.

He always knew what was safe with him.

But Cross had asked if he’d like some help, and he simply blinked at him. He wasn’t used to offers of help. He hesitated for a moment, only to nod in the end. He’d be there, and Cross wouldn’t try anything, he knew.

“Do you know… how to cook?” he asked, covering the pot of bubbling stew. All that was left to do was to cut the rest of the vegetable and add them to the simmering mixture.

Cross’ skull went a faint shade of purple and he fiddled with his fingers. “Not really,” he admitted. “I know how to bake, since me and Crown used to bake pies… during one of the…”

He trailed off with a grimace, probably a memory, and Horror placed a hand onto his shoulder, offering what little comfort he could without words. He didn’t press the issue; they all had their hangups.

Cross took a deep breath and tried for a smile. It was a little wobbly and lopsided, but Horror had less than no right to criticize, with the way his own side of the skull didn’t like to listen to him.

“Anyways,” Cross chuckled, “I just wanna help you. ‘S a bit unfair that you’re always cooking everything by yourself.”

A spark of warmth bloomed in Horror’s SOUL. He’d taken to cooking for himself at first.

A little seed of distrust that had been present between him and Killer, back when it was just the two of them with Nightmare in the castle, drove him to make sure he prepared his own sustenance, start to finish. There had also been the fact that he’d wanted to test the limits Nightmare never set up. Would he be punished for taking from the pantry? Was it a game of russian roulette with the ingredients? Back then he didn’t know.

He’d learned, eventually, that Nightmare’s promise of being taken care of was a genuine one. Everything was safe, and there never was even a comment, no matter how much he took for himself. It was surreal, something he’d only dreamed of for years on end. Even now, it sometimes shocked him, that he could simply  _ have _ some when he smelled food, no longer bound to suffer the phantom pains of his stomach’s leylines twisting upon themselves. It’d been that discovery, coupled with visits to the Omega timeline to see Sugar, that’d solidified Horror’s trust — and respect — in Nightmare. His brother was just as well taken care of as him, maybe even more, and that knowledge alone let Horror sleep at night.

He wasn’t sure the others would ever understand  _ just _ how important food and safety were to him. But that was fine.

“The carrots,” he said, inclining his head towards the cutting board, “can you cut them?”

Cross nodded and moved there, hesitating a moment as he grabbed the knife sitting there. Horror could almost see the thoughts spinning in his head, and he almost told him to forget it. But Cross gripped the handle and started cutting the vegetables diligently.

Horror knew the others had troubles around knives — or at least Cross, who ironically, used them, and Dust, whose magic would flare up wild in defence if any blade was pointed even in his direction, did. Horror’s own memory was spotty past the… incident with Empress Undyne and her guard, but sometimes there were images of a child in a striped shirt with a knife like Killer’s. Sometimes, the vague memory was followed by the chiming of bells and a feeling of disappointment. And then, a deep loathing.

Maybe he was lucky, in that regard.

He must’ve zoned out for longer than he’d thought, not that that was all that rare with him, or Cross was very good at cutting food up. He was done and looking at Horror as if he was waiting for something.

Horror blinked at him again. “Good job,” he said, and it must have been the right thing, because Cross beamed at him, standing a little straighter. “Just… add them to the pot. And stir a bit.”

Cross nodded and did just as told, holding the ladle like it would bite him. Horror had to admit it was a little endearing.

“Thank you, applesauce,” he told him. It made Cross’ smile wider, but also a little unsure. He didn’t have the time to wonder why; Cross was like an open book sometimes, something Horror appreciated.

“Is… is that really all?” he asked, glancing at the pot.

“I was… almost done,” Horror admitted, with a shrug. He racked his mind when Cross’ look turned crestfallen. It wasn’t a look he liked. “But… maybe you can make a pie? For dessert.”

Yet again, Cross looked torn, if only for a moment. He’d sounded proud of his baking knowledge, but there was probably something tied to it. He seemed to resolve whatever inner conflict he’d been having fairly quickly, though. He nodded.

“I uh— I can make a pretty good butterscotch.”

“...never had it.”

Cross lit up like a set of Gyftmas lights. “You’re gonna love it!” he promised, as he started looking through the cupboards for the necessary ingredients. Horror gently navigated him when it looked like he was flipping through the doors haphazardly.

And, when everything was done and they sat at the table, Horror made sure to tell him how much he liked the pie. And made sure to ask for seconds.

The prideful look that stayed on Cross’ face the rest of the day almost convinced him that maybe, the others could understand the importance food held to him.


	2. nightmare's cups cake

Horror wasn’t sure if Cross told the others, or if they’d just caught onto the little soldier helping him out around the kitchen as of late, but they were all trying to be included. The most surprising of the offers, however, had no doubt been Nightmare’s own.

Horror found himself torn between refusing outright — Nightmare stocked the pantry for him (for  _ them _ ) and he was loath to ask for anything more of the guardian, and agreeing on the principle that he always did what his boss said, no questions asked.

Eventually, at Nightmare’s raised browbone, the loyalty won out within Horror and he scooted over from where he was lining a pan with baking paper. Cross’ affinity towards baking pies whenever he helped out had rubbed off on Horror, and now no supper lacked a dessert to go along with it.

“Just the cake to go…” he said, frowning at the bags set out on the counter; flour and sugar, and a cup of butter along with a bottle of oil. He’d dubbed the cake ‘cups cake’, because he could never remember the actual name, and all the measurements went by cups.

“That’s fine,” Nightmare told him, “What needs to be done?”

“I’ll make the… the batter. Can you peel… and cut the apples?”

A microexpression passed over Nightmare’s face, faster than Horror could place it. “Sure.”

He fished for the peeler and handed it over to the other skeleton, returning to the bowl he’d left waiting on the counter. Two cups of flour, a cup of sugar, half of oil. Then a cup of milk and two eggs. And then he fished out a couple bits of eggshell that had made their way in, because he couldn’t control the force he’d cracked one of them with. A bit of baking powder and salt and he stirred it all together, holding the bowl in one hand.

He turned to look at how Nightmare was doing with the fruit, and he frowned. There was a single peeled apple sitting in front of him, though ‘peeled’ was a rough description. A third of the red skin was still on it. Nightmare had another one, gripping the peeler with enough force that his goo was  _ roiling. _

Horror set the bowl down, along with the whisk, and walked the pace that separated them, to put a hand onto Nightmare’s shoulder. The other skeleton didn’t startle, but he  _ did _ tense up, shoulders squaring up, and it was almost as bad. When Horror looked down, his hand was shaking.

“It’s okay… if you can’t, it’s okay.”

Nightmare’s browbone, the visible one, was furrowed, his teeth grit. It was the most Horror had ever seen him emote outside a battle, or the bedroom.

“My apologies for taking so long,” Nightmare told him, only making Horror frown harder. Slowly, so as not to startle him again, Horror slid his hand down the length of his sleeve and curled his phalanges over Nightmare’s own, stopping the shaking.

“Please stop,” Horror asked him, voice so soft it was barely audible. But he was right next to him, and the slump of his shoulders told Horror he’d been heard. Nightmare clenched his socket closed and set both the apple and the peeler down on the counter.

He hung his head, just a little, so Horror leaned his in, nuzzling the side of it with his own. “I apologize,” Nightmare repeated. There was an edge to his voice, something almost somber. Horror decided right there that he didn’t like it. “I had thought I’d gotten over this silly aversion.”

Horror moved just enough to clink their skulls together.

“S’okay.”

They stayed like that for a moment in silence, and then Horror pushed the apples away, so Nightmare would stop glaring at them. It seemed to do the trick, because he could feel Nightmare leaning into where their skulls still rested against one another.

“Hey, boss…”

“Yes?”

“...thank you.”

Nightmare craned his head to the side, just enough to look at him. “Whatever for?”

Horror’s teeth quirked up in a facsimile of the grin he usually wore, but much softer. “For offering. To help, I mean. And the food… and—”

“Oh, Horror,” Nightmare cut him off. He angled his whole body so he could reach up and run a phalanx over the edge of his head wound. Instead of pulling away, Horror dipped his head down to make it easier. The broken leylines along the cracks sparked at the contact. “That’s not something you have to thank me for. Ever.”

Horror nodded, eye falling shut. “I know.”

He was sure that all the positive emotions he was feeling must’ve been uncomfortable for Nightmare, but even if they were, it wasn’t visible on the smaller skeleton. Horror reached up and wrapped his other hand around Nightmare’s as well, holding it to himself.

Nightmare huffed, as if amused. “It’s… sweet of you, to try and cheer me up.”

“Does it… does it ever work?”

“Yes. I appreciate it.”

Horror smiled again, and moved the hand not on his skull up to his teeth, so he could press them to the back of it. “...that’s good,” he mumbled against the layer of negativity. “Let’s bake it. The cake. We can put chocolate on top… instead of fruit.”

Nightmare huffed out a chuckle again, tracing his phalanx over Horror’s wound once more before pulling away. They were still holding hands. “I’m sure Cross will like that more, anyways.”

Horror nodded, but even he could tell that Nightmare really meant that  _ he _ would like that more.


	3. killer's chicken curry

LV had a different effect on each monster. Some, it made bigger, if their SOUL didn’t have enough magic to strengthen up, like it did to Horror. It also meant his senses were much sharper, disregarding his sight.

He could smell blood from a mile away, and there was no way he couldn’t smell Killer standing in the doorway, even if his back was turned to it.

“It’ll be a bit… till lunch,” he said. He had only just gotten started on it, but to be fair, it was just ten in the morning.

It was a minute or two until Killer said anything to him, but he didn’t move, so he probably wanted something. Horror wasn’t sure what, though, not with just silence and without sight. Killer had always been the hardest to understand.

He had no eyelights — though, lately, Horror could have sworn there was one, a faint ring of white in the right socket — and he cried eternally. It reminded Horror of Nightmare’s goo, but it was thinner. Idly, he wondered what it tasted like. Would Killer let him have a taste, if he asked? Or maybe it was dangerous.

“What’cha making?”

Finally, Horror turned away from the stove. He’d just been heating the curry paste with garlic, and the smell of them was starting to permeate the kitchen. “Chicken curry. Would you… do you want something else?”

The noodles were already cooked and sitting in a strainer, but he could always turn them into something else.

Killer was leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He was tapping his foot. He might have been hard to get a read on, but Horror had been living with him for years now. He thought he’d gotten a pretty good hang of at least  _ some _ of his tells.

He was nervous.

“Nah. Just checking in.”

Killer, unlike Horror himself, was a man of words. A silver tongue, Nightmare had called it once; he took an opportunity for a verbal jab — and sometimes a physical one, as well. His words were plenty and loud, and they always had an underlying meaning, like he was saying two different things at once.

Horror had hated it, at first. Killer would say something, and everyone else would get the meaning, or a joke, while it would fly over his skull. Eventually, he learned to see the hidden meanings; if not in everything, then in most things. He always caught on, eventually. And if it was important, Killer would tell him in more plain words.

It had been one of the signs that he wasn’t nearly as emotionless and nonchalant as he liked to come across.

“Do you want to help?” Horror asked, quietly.

His answer was a terse nod, but Killer had stopped tapping his foot. He took a step into the kitchen, keeping his arms crossed like a barrier against… something.

“Heh, haven’t cooked since… s’been a while. Not sure I’ll be of much help, really, but hey, I got nothing else to do.”

He plastered a grin on his face, a little too wide to be genuine. In Killer speak, what he’d just said translated to, ‘I don’t wanna do anything else.’

“Recipe’s easy,” Horror assured him. Most of them had to be so he could remember them. For the more elaborate ones, he needed more time and planning. He’d stayed up all night, once, trying to make creamy corn soup. It had turned out really tasty, but he’d promised Nightmare he wouldn’t do it again. “Here, I’ll show you… Just cut up the potato.”

Horror put the spices he'd prepared into the pan and stirred. It only took a moment for the new smells to rise, and he added a stock cube and sugar.

On a cutting board off to the side sat a peeled red potato. Killer had walked in just as he’d been about to cut it and start on the dish proper.

Killer snorted, finally unlacing his arms. "Sure, I can do that. Cutting's what I do best."

Horror watched as he took the knife and cut into the tough vegetable, and immediately he was frowning. "What... are you doing?"

Killer looked over, arching a browbone. "Uh, cutting the potato? Like you asked me to?"

Shaking his head, Horror stepped behind Killer and wrapped his phalanges around the other's. "You…" He had to stop and think for a moment, because all the words that were coming to him were… not wrong, but  _ wrong _ . "Let me show you."

Killer's hands went lax and it allowed Horror to adjust the grip on the knife, and move Killer's phalanges on the potato, tucking them into a loose fist.

"Like this," he said, guiding Killer into cutting a stripe of the vegetable, and then another, and another. "If you… if you did it the other way… I don't want a bone in… the food."

Killer's hands clenched, and Horror only felt it because he was still holding them. It was obvious he hadn't held a knife this way in a long time. No, he was the one who knew how to flip a blade and catch it in two fingers, and how to angle it when slashing at an enemy. But that was different.

"Heh, told you I haven't cooked in a while."

"'sokay," Horror muttered. This way, the potato was already cut, so he let go of Killer and let him place the knife down. "In the pan it goes."

Killer scooped the chunks of potato and simply tossed them in.

"Now… the fish sauce," the bigger skeleton said, pouring it in, and then he started to stir again. "Can you… put the milk and water in?"

"Yeah, sure." He was being particularly agreeable today, Horror noted, but he didn't comment on it as Killer tipped the bottles in. "Man, this cooking shit's easy."

Horror laughed. "It is. Cut the chicken."

Killer diligently turned back to the cutting board, but grabbed a new one when Horror told him to. He held the knife properly this time, even as the other watched, just in case. Truth be told, Killer  _ was _ pretty good with it. In the kitchen setting. Horror would be the last one to doubt Killer's battle prowess.

Horror turned the heat up to bring the sauce to a boil, hand stirring it idly. Soon enough, Killer had the chicken breast cut into neat little strips.

"So, what? Just chuck it in again?"

Once the sauce bubbled, Horror nodded. In the meat went, sizzling quietly. "Thank you," he said, flicking his gaze to the side.

Killer chuckled, and Horror would again have sworn he could see a faint white in the depths of his eyesocket. "I thought there'd be more to it. Some secret… I dunno."

Horror could see him still clenching his hands into fists, and the edges of his SOUL wavering in their shape. Slowly, he pulled him closer and wrapped one of his hands around the wooden spoon, showing him how to stir.

"Nope."

The SOUL wavered more, a little faster in its oscillation. Vaguely, it started to resemble the usual SOUL shape. Killer took over the stirring, and Horror kept his mouth shut. 

All Killer needed was a little more time, and then he'd open up to what he was thinking, like he always did. And luckily for them, they still needed to stir the sauce for six minutes.


	4. dust's sandwiches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a continuation of another day in the year

Horror wouldn’t admit it, not outloud, at least, but he was worried. His one exception to keeping people out of the kitchen, nevermind the fact that it didn’t seem to apply anymore, with how much the others took to helping, or even just hovering as he did his things, had always been Dust.

He’d told Horror once, during a weak moment (Dust’s words, not his), that being around him made the voices more bearable. Horror hadn’t thought much about it back then, as new as Dust had been to the group. It’d been before he’d seen one of his episodes, seen just what those voices were capable of making him do. He’d pitied that version of himself, back then. Before he understood him. He’d probably never understand fully, but how could he, when Sugar was probably doing the same thing as him right now, thinking up a new way to spruce up his signature spaghetti?

Dust’s brother was dead. It got Horror thinking, sometimes, what he would have done if the human returned, if the Core never had a chance to fail. If the human chose a different path, and chose it over and over.

He had no right to judge Dust — or any of the others — for the cards he’d been dealt, or the way he played them.

But he hadn’t shown up in the kitchen in a while. Usually, he’d wander in from time to time, sit at the table and watch in silence. Sometimes they’d talk; Horror wasn’t a fan of that at first, but he’d learned how to juggle doing more things at once. It was something he was secretly proud of. Back in the Underground, he could barely focus on a single thing, his mind — or what had been left of it — completely scattered. 

He hoped Sugar was doing just as well. Physically, he’d been doing great the last time Horror had seen him, and his braces were working like a charm. Sugar smiled bright and wide at everyone. But Horror wasn’t sure how his brother was doing under the surface. He could only hope it was as good (as relative as that was with them) as Horror himself.

He always planned to thank Dust for all the help, though he probably didn’t even realize he’d done anything. But being alone just begged for his thoughts to wander, and it was easier to focus on another person instead, whether it was just the stuttering, frantic beat of his SOUL filling the silence, or mindless, one-sided conversations that Horror chided into when he could see that ‘Papyrus’ was getting to him.

Thinking back on it, the last time the two of them were alone together had been the time they’d baked a cake, after Dust managed to set his own attempt on fire and flood the entire kitchen. Horror didn’t hold it against him, though, maybe Dust didn’t know that. Horror frowned to himself, vowing to tell him so the next time he saw him. Or maybe repeat it; he wasn’t quite sure if he’d said it before.

He made his way to the garden through the quiet castle. It was still early enough that almost everyone — with the exception of Nightmare — would still be sleeping. The air was crisp outside, and made him shiver a bit as he walked the cobbled path towards the little row of vegetables planted along the castle wall.

There wasn’t much, not yet, just a couple tall tomato plants, and paprika. They hadn’t figured out how to make anything else grow in the AU’s peculiar weather. With a perpetual night, it was a wonder even these had taken. But Nightmare had installed a street lamp by the path, the magic imbued in it enough to simulate real sunlight.

Horror wasn’t expecting to see anyone out so early, much less Dust himself. He was kneeling a little way off Horror’s vegetables, by his own row of plants. Poisonous, all of them, most of which Horror wouldn’t have a name for, but could recognize by smell. 

A disable pile of glowing, orange leaves sat on the ground next to Dust, more of them in his hand as he plucked only some specific ones from the stalks.

“Hey, lambchop,” he greeted, knowing better than to let himself startle the other.

Dust’s hand twitched as it tore another leaf, and broke the stalk. “Horror,” he replied, in lieu of a greeting.

“What’re you… doing?”

Dust gathered up the pile of leaves, careful with them despite the occasional twitch and jerk. “Drying these. Running low.” He inclined his head to the side, eyelights glazed over when Horror spotted them under the hem of his cap. Papyrus must have said something, for Dust shook his head.

He admired Dust’s affinity for science, he really did. With his spotty memory, Horror could remember trying to fix the Core, but now… he was all but useless in a lab. And Dust had managed to find a new use for his skills. Poison making was a science Horror would be expected to dislike, due to its nature alone, maybe, but it wasn’t so.

To see Dust coat the end of a bone attack with but a drop of something and have his enemy pinned to the ground as it slowly ate away at their HP was really a sight to behold. Horror respected it, if only because Killer had once asked for one, to try and prank Cross, and Dust refused.

“Hey,” he called after him as Dust twisted on a heel, holding the leaves in dirt-stained fingers. “Help me make breakfast… the others are… still asleep. Probably.”

Dust had stopped at his voice, his back to Horror, but the tension in his shoulders was visible from a mile away.

“I’d rather not set the kitchen on fire,” he said, and Horror found himself half-disappointed that his earlier assumption had been correct.

“I’ll be there,” he assured, even as he leaned down and started plucking the couple ripened tomatoes at the top of the plants. When Dust didn’t reply, he tried a different approach. “Just sandwiches. No fire.”

Soon enough, he had an armful of tomatoes, and walked over to the other skeleton. He seemed to be debating the offer, at least, even if his gaze flicked sideways here and there.

“Want you there,” Horror told him.

Dust’s shoulders slumped, but he jostled the leaves at Horror, a final attempt at an out that Horror didn’t really want. Neither of them did. “But the leaves…”

“Dry them… on the table. S’big enough.”

Finally, Dust’s walls crumbled, just a bit, and Horror couldn’t help a smile as he stepped just a bit closer, their sleeves brushing each other.

“It’ll stain the table.”

But Horror had a solution to everything. “Parchment paper…” Anything to make sure Dust wouldn’t run away. So he could have a bit of his normalcy back.

“‘kay.”

His kitchen wasn’t the same when Dust wasn’t around, after all.


	5. horror's feast

“I’m pretty sure you need to heat the pan before putting the oil in.”

Killer scoffed as he tipped the bottle and filled the bottom of the pan with a generous amount of said oil. “It’s gonna heat up either way, what’s it matter?”

“Both of you, shut up,” Nightmare bit out, over the edge of the cookbook he was reading. Or, more precisely,  _ re- _ reading. “Cross is right, but there’s nothing we can do now.”

Killer shrugged the annoyed glare right off, turning the heat on under the pan. “I don’t see the difference.”

“Summon your eyelight, then,” Cross huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. They all waited impatiently for the oil to heat up, and once it started sizzling and splashing out of the pan — at which point Cross got burned by it and yelled at Killer for turning the heat on too high — Cross added the garlic and chopped onions.

They’d all read the recipe at least three times (as with all the other ones), but Nightmare still insisted on having the book on (or in) hand, to make sure they wouldn’t forget anything.

Killer tossed in the chicken he’d cut earlier when the onions were turning brown and let Cross toss it around as it cooked.

They’d all been surprised at how fast the actual cooking of this went, as opposed to the prep. Within minutes, the chicken was cooked, and Cross took it off the heat to put into a bowl (after threatening bodily harm and burns at Killer with the pan for getting in his way).

Dust watched impassively over Nightmare’s shoulder as the bickering duo replaced the meat with vegetables and then argued over what heat it should fry.

Nightmare broke their argument with a resolute, “Medium,” as well as a mumble about whether or not they’d ‘read the fucking recipe at all.’

They had, of course, and Cross proved it by putting the meat back into the pan when the vegetables started turning tender.

“Dust, the sauce,” Nightmare called, holding out a hand.

“I’m not a part of this,” Dust deadpanned, even as he handed over the bowl of sauce he’d diligently been whisking. Nightmare ignored the remark and poured it into the pan with a tentacle. Cross was already stirring it around.

It smelled amazing.

But they still had three dishes to go, and Killer and Cross were on their seventh argument of the day. Nightmare was developing a headache and Dust kept glancing off to the side, fingers twitching minutely anytime someone raised their voice.

It would be a long afternoon, but hopefully, it would be worth it.

* * *

  
When Horror returned, his immediate worry was if the castle still stood.

It did, and there was no hint of smoke, either, thankfully. The last time he'd been out on a mission alone, he came back to a ruined kitchen, so he didn't think his worry was all that misplaced. But all he could smell was meat, and something spicy.

And burnt oil.

Warily, he made his way to the kitchen.

"--away, that's a wine glass, not a juice glass!"

He caught the tail end of whatever argument was going on as he walked into the room.

"If I put juice in it it's gonna be a fucking juice glass."

Horror stopped in his tracks, if only to take the scene in in full. Killer and Cross were fighting over a carton of apple juice, while Nightmare's tentacles spread dishes over the table. It was a veritable feast waiting there, ready for them to sit down and dig in. Except the last spot, which Nightmare was still setting up.

"What're... you doing?"

Everyone except Nightmare turned to look at him, pausing whatever they were doing. Nightmare's tentacles set down the last plate, returning to their idle position behind his back.

"I take it your assignment went smoothly," his boss said, gaze flicking to the wall-mounted clock.

"We made dinner!" Killer cut in, entirely too excited and loud. It made Horror's head hurt. But the murderer seemed so earnest, and Horror could see his SOUL in its rare, more normal shape instead of the target.

He'd let go of the juice carton, leaving Cross to fumble with it, and only spill a little onto himself. He grumbled something along the lines of, 'fucking stars, Kills.'

"A thanks," Nightmare explained, no doubt able to sense both Horror's confusion and apprehension, "For teaching us."

There was more behind those words, Horror was sure. But he couldn't puzzle it out, not on such a short notice, and everyone looked like they were waiting for him to say something.

"I wasn't a part of this," Dust said, off from the side. He did his best to look impassive, even if he knew Horror always saw right through it. Plus the look Nightmare threw his way suggested otherwise, though Horror couldn't find it in himself to be mad since everything around -- save the sink full of dishes -- looked the same as he'd left it.

"I..." he started, but the words wouldn't sound correct even in his mind, so he knew they'd be a mess out loud. Instead, he settled for a, "Thanks."

They all looked proud. Cross pulled out a chair, beckoning him closer like some kind of a damsel. Horror only went along with it to keep that beaming smile on his face.

Killer ladled soup into a bowl and set it before him, still steaming. It looked like a simple vegetable soup, with bits of chicken and thin noodles to go along with the carrots and parsley.

Horror's fingers fiddled with the spoon as everyone else sat down.

Everyone save for Dust.

Unsubtly, he pulled his hoodie apart to show Horror the sewn in holders for his poisons. All the vials were in their places, and all looked full.

He appreciated the gesture, even if he didn't think there was poison in the food. 

He nodded and Dust let his hoodie fall back in place, taking his seat. They were all waiting for him, eyelights trained to his face as he took a spoonful of the soup.

It was good.

No, that wasn't really true.

_ It was great. _

He could taste the care they put in it, all of them, distinct intents mixing with the taste of chicken on his tongue.

It brought tears into his eye, for reasons he couldn't articulate. Everything blurred, and he wiped at his eye, but it only let him see the way everyone's excitement had changed into concern.

"You don't like it?" Cross asked, and he sounded crestfallen, even if it was obvious he tried not to.

"Told you it has too much pepper," Killer muttered, but his browbones were scrunched together all the same.

Horror shook his head, finding a lump in his throat when he tried to explain himself. His SOUL swelled with emotions in his ribcage, and no words were coming to him.

It was a tense couple of minutes, Dust scooting closer so their shoulders bumped. Eventually, Horror's tears stopped, and he forced his voice to obey him.

"Tastes... great," he ground out, voice gruff and half-choked.

One of Nightmare's tentacles came up to cradle his cheek, tip gently rubbing along the edge of his head wound in a way that had Horror leaning into the touch.

"Oh, Horror. I don't think there could be higher praise," he said, looking at him from over the table with a softer look than was usual for him. "We moved him to tears with the soup alone. Whatever will the other dishes do?"

Killer chuckled. Horror wasn't sure he'd ever heard that sound without the manic edge to it. "Better do the same," he said, "Criss-cross even made a raspberry pie for dessert. Make sure to leave space for it."

Cross' cheekbones had gone a faint shade of purple, but before he could say anything, Dust nudged Horror's side.

"Eat up. It'll get cold."

So Horror did. He listened to Killer's speech of the cooking process, entirely embellished, as he forced himself not to cry again. But they all looked like they knew, and there wasn't a shred of pity or amusement at his expense in any of them.

He'd been a fool to think they could never understand what food meant to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for coming along with me on this little journey of better understanding a kitchen and each other  
> i hope you enjoyed it, despite the shortness and abundance of headcanons 💜💜
> 
> my twitter is @esqers


End file.
